Compromise
by angelmaple
Summary: In which John meets Harry for the first time since his return from Afghanistan.


**Title: **Compromise

**Word Count: **2436

**Rating:** G

**Warnings:** Angst. Spoilers for _A Study in Pink_

**Characters:** John, Harry. Mentions of Clara

**Summary:** In which John meets Harry for the first time since his return from Afghanistan. Written for this prompt from sherlockbbc on livejournal: _Harry/Clara and John fic. I'd love see some of the angst alluded to in Study in Pink. Harry did just give John Clara's present (the mobile) to him._

They met in a rather posh restaurant not far from Harry's work during her lunch break. John would have preferred somewhere less ostentatious; he felt the discomfort and gracelessness cling to him like an awkward second skin, an uncouth cocoon in this microcosm of the privileged.

John had gotten there early because he was anxious – not that he wanted to acknowledge it – and was able to observe Harry as she swept in. She didn't exactly look _terrible_, he thought. Just tired. At least better than he remembered from her last alcoholic phase. She hadn't changed too much since he's last seen her. Her hair was hardly longer than his own; understated suit impeccable, sensible heels clicking as she made her way to him. He stood to greet her.

'Harry. Hi.' John said with a small smile, not sure if he should hug her or not.

Harry returned his smile thinly, though sincerely. She stared at him rather intently, both of them silent and on edge in the face of too much emotion crystallised into too little space.

The tension was broken momentarily as Harry gathered John into an awkward hug. They had never gotten along, not even when they were children, but for a fleeting moment, John was overwhelmed with a sense of affection. He may not agree with her, he may not get along with her, he certainly may not understand her at times, but one thing would always be true for John: Harry was the only blood he had left, and blood was thicker than water, regardless of how John might wish it was not so sometimes.

'So, are you better now? Since I called?' John started carefully.

Harry looked away. 'You caught me at a bad night, John.'

'You mean you aren't drunk every night?'

Harry still wouldn't look at him. 'Well… alright, yes, most nights.' She admitted. 'For the past two months and… thirteen days.'

John sighed. 'Well, out with it then. What is it this time?'

It was Harry's turn to sigh. 'I really don't want to talk about it.' Seeing John open his mouth to protest, Harry cut him off: 'Really, I don't… just… drop it, John.'

John knew he couldn't push her. She would have to choose to tell him herself, in her own time. Whether she actually chose to tell him or not during this visit would be anyone's guess.

'I almost got suspended from the Bar.' Harry said tonelessly.

'_What_?' John's eyes widened to fix Harry with an incredulous glare.

'Yeah. Turned up to Court drunk. Luckily I'm a morose sort of drunk. Well, I was that day anyway. I didn't really do anything but embarrass myself by crying. The judge wasn't harsh or anything, since I said nothing insulting; she just told me to pull myself together.'

'Oh Harry…' John used this tone but rarely, a variety of 'you should have known better' mixed with affection and sympathy.

'Yeah.' Harry agreed quietly.

John knew that whatever it was, it must be bad from the fact that Harry had let him gotten away with using that tone without some witty sardonic remark. She hated to appear weak, even in front of those who knew her best. John could only remember less than a handful times himself. Whatever it was, it must have been devastating enough that she was actually agreeing with his unspoken words instead of pushing him away with an 'I'm fine.'

'But I want to talk about you, John.' Harry said after a small silence, tension and some more heated emotion than strained nonchalance seeping into her voice. 'For goodness sake, we had almost no contact all this time you were… away,' – John knows she didn't even want to utter the words 'Afghanistan' or 'war' – 'I was… worried.' She admitted.

The sinking feeling in John's stomach only got worse. What had come over his brash and sarcastic sister? She was subdued, almost sombre, and he didn't know whether her own troubles or her worries for him had rendered her such. Whatever it was, John tried to put her mind at ease about himself.

'Look Harry, don't, don't worry about me, okay? I'm _fine_, really.'

Harry looked at him a little suspiciously. 'Really? What are you going to do about living arrangements? You said that you're staying at the rehabilitation centre?'

Surprised, John asked: 'You remember what I said that night?'

'Well,' Harry squirmed a little, slightly uncomfortable, 'It was a bad night, but you called me fairly early. Few hours later I would have been, well, decimated. Let's not mince words.'

'Are you getting help?' John asked with a frown, thinking he knew the answer. But Harry surprised him again.

'Yes, actually, seeing a therapist. A good one, if you could believe it. I'm actually a bit better now than I was a couple of months ago.'

The relief that swept through John made him realise just how much his worry had built over the past week. But Harry still wasn't telling him much.

Perhaps a piece of confession from himself was needed to ferret out the truth.

'Well, I'm pretty sure my therapist is rubbish. Keeps telling me to keep a blog, as if that's going to help with the limp.'

Harry regarded him steadily with her gaze. There was concern and a touch of curiosity, but she waited for him to go on.

'Psychosomatic, see. Got shot in the shoulder though.' John recognized something in his voice similar to the way Harry announced her drunken episode at Court – distancing oneself to the point of being almost clinical with the pretence of light-heartedness. Well, perhaps sometimes they were not so different.

Harry seemed to understand that he wanted no further questions; that he wasn't nearly ready to talk about what happened in Afghanistan. She made to say something, then closed her mouth again, biting her lower lip. John waited with bated breath.

Even though he had anticipated some sort of dramatic declaration at this point, it certainly was not what Harry had to say next.

'I walked out on Clara.'

Dumbfounded, John could not do nothing but gape at his sister.

'_Why_?' An incredulous, almost choked word, more an exclamation than a question.

'Because she told me to. Because I cheated.'

There was immediate anger at the second declaration. Clara had meant more to John than he would ever admit, and he trust Harry to look after her, to be good to her, and this is what he finds when he returns home from the battlefields?

Logically, he knew that whatever happened between Harry and Clara is none of his business. Logically he should be more worried about his sister's well being, because he knows, that for all her flirtatious charms with the female sex, she was not the cheating kind.

But there was only anger and disappointment. He stopped himself from saying anything that he might regret, though he couldn't stop some of his immense disapproval from seeping into his gaze.

Harry sighed. 'John, you have no idea what happened since you went away. You have no idea when we went through, so don't you dare judge me just yet.'

'Well,' said John carefully, trying to keep calm, 'Are you going to tell me?'

'We were going to have a baby.' Harry said after a little while, her voice almost impossibly quiet, 'Clara miscarried. We don't know why. The doctors told us that these things just… happens sometimes.' She paused, perhaps waiting for some sort of response.

John had absolutely no clue what to say. He just felt defeated. The loss of innocent lives always made him feel that way. Christ, he could have had a little nephew and niece by now. Would his attempt at comforting words and apologies sound hollow? He didn't want to find out.

He didn't have to as Harry went on.

'I'm not trying to push the blame away, of course not, but both of us took it hard. Things were never the same. Clara wouldn't really talk to anyone for weeks. Everything she said to me was just... perfunctory at best. I tried. Honest to God I did. But she.. she was closed off to me. I admit I was weak. I know that. But I... I was grieving too, and there was no one to talk to. Perhaps it was both our faults for not being honest with each other, but the final deed was done by me. It sounds pathetic, but it just... happened. Just an one night stand. Something quite unimportant, in the scheme of things. But it's completely destroyed us. Without her there at all, I couldn't stand anything any more. Hence the drinking. Again.'

Her voice was no more than a sliver of a whisper by the end of her explanation.

Despite himself, John felt something in him clench and twist, seeing that desperately bland non-expression on Harry's face, hearing her voice thin out and tremble into nothingness, as if some oppressive and malevolent force was chocking it from her as she struggled to keep calm.

John realised that speech was entirely futile. He would not trust his own vocal chords in any event.

He reached across the table and held Harry's hand in a gesture of comfort and reassurance. He couldn't even recall the last time he had held Harry's hand in his own, and suddenly, the knowledge made him feel like an extremely inadequate brother. Harry would never say this, she was deucedly proud in her own way (a family trait, perhaps? John dismissed the thought). Where was John when Harry and Clara went through this horrible loss? Off in Afghanistan. Fighting for Queen and Country. While his own sister was struggling with all this grief and loneliness and alcoholism. His sister, who was strong and capable, who didn't take any nonsense from anyone, who was at times arrogant and impetuous –

Who was almost in tears.

It was not at all obvious. But John could see it, that subtle glassy quality the slight moisture gave her blue eyes.

'Oh, I uh, I wanted to give you this…' Harry said as if just remembering, but really as a way of distracting John. John let himself be distracted. Harry reached into her leather messenger bad and pulled out a phone, sliding it across the table carelessly with the back of it facing up. She noticed John eyeing the inscription.

'It was for my birthday.' She explained. 'When I first realized that we… that I've really screwed it up this time, I wanted to chuck it because I honestly couldn't stand having any reminders of her around. Yet I couldn't throw it away. Pathetic, I know. Then I thought you'd have a better use for the phone – it's a good one. So.' She shrugged, gesturing towards the mobile phone, trying to be casual about it, as if a sister gave phones to her brother engraved with her estranged wife's name on a regular basis.

John pursed his lips. 'Look, Harry, I don't need charity.'

There was no pity in Harry's eyes, however, only a sort of determined intensity.

'I know.' She agreed. 'The last thing you need is charity.'

John was grateful that she knew him well enough to at least try to spare his dignity. But how could she not feel sorry for him, knowing full well of his quiet pride, when strangers looked at him with unwanted sympathy with just one glance at his cane?

'Look, John. I'm asking you to take this for _me_. Keep it for me. Please.'

Suddenly, John was reminded of a time when his sister used to wheedle him for sweets, for his walkman, for his jeans, for him to cover her escape from the house, for anything until he caved, and she'd give him a brisk hug with a mischievous grin and satisfied glint in her eye.

God, where had that vivacious girl gone?

John swallowed, his throat feeling inexplicably tighter.

'Alright.' He said quietly. He knows he's not taking it for her sake exactly, no matter how pleading her voice had turned. He was taking it because... well, because they were both too proud to admit that they loved each other. John would never admit to Harry that he can barely afford his lodgings and food, let alone a mobile; and Harry would never express so much sentimentality as to say: _look John, I'd like to keep in touch. Let me buy you a phone. Actually, why don't you move in with me? _

So this, this will be their compromise.

'I'd best be going.' said Harry, and made to leave.

As she made to stand, John put his hand on her arm suddenly.

'So...you still love her then?' It was stupid, and John winced as soon as he asked it.

The look of pained incredulity that flashed across Harry's face as she extricated her arm from his hand.

'You have to ask me that John?'

John looked sheepishly at her. 'Sorry, of course not, I know that you...'

'It's no use now anyway.' Harry interrupted. 'She wants a divorce. She's sure of it.'

'God, Harry, I... well, you know I'm sorry. For... not being there, and everything else.'

'Yes.' Harry said softly and gave John's hand an affectionate squeeze, acknowledging the weight of his apology. There was much that was not said, but in a way, they did not need to be.

With a last hug, John let Harry go, watching her disappear into the crowds beyond the door.

Belatedly, John realised that either of them actually ordered anything. Which was just as well, because John knew he wouldn't be able to afford to order much at all anyway.

As he made to stand up, however, a waiter appeared with a plate of what appeared to be good old steak and vegetables done with fancy decorations and such.

As the waiter put down the plate, John informed him that nothing was ordered.

'Oh, but the lady did order for you, sir.' said the waiter. 'Enjoy your lunch.'

The mobile chimed as the waiter took his leave. John checked the message:

_Be a good boy and eat your lunch, little brother. Don't forget to call. _

With a wistful smile, John slipped the phone into his inner pocket, determined to keep in touch with Harry.


End file.
